


bagai mereguk madu dan racun

by magma_maiden



Series: heartless, dragonless, sunless [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - ASOIAF, F/M, Female Ootsutsuki Indra, Female Senju Hashirama, Female Uchiha Izuna, Gen, Lore Snippets - Dragonless, Targaryen!Uchiha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2019-01-23 01:13:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12495104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magma_maiden/pseuds/magma_maiden
Summary: his crown was honey, his throne a poison, his realm in the brink of war, and madara only wanted to see hashirama again.





	bagai mereguk madu dan racun

**Author's Note:**

> naruto (c) masashi kishimoto  
> a song of ice and fire (c) george r r martin  
> no material profit taken i just wanna be freed from the plot bunnies
> 
> tied with _seperti beringin merindu rembulan_. a bit madahashi. worldbuilding. madara is about 19 here.

Emperor Tajima lashed out at him once he set his foot back in the palace. The hurled insults no longer hurt him. In the last months, his father had grown more senile with each passing days. He spent too much time on the throne, even during sleeping. It might had been in the palace for ten centuries, but it’s an unspoken rule that the ruler of the realm should spend as little time as possible on the throne. For their clan, power and madness are the two sides of the same coin. Yet the Emperor’s claim that the Senju were trying to usurp their authority _again_ gained much supporters among their own family.

It was odd because not a year ago the Senju’s eldest child Hashirama was betrothed to him, the Crown Prince Madara. The Emperor signed the pact with Lord Senju Butsuma, hoping that it would bring prosperity to the realm. The Senju were the wealthiest clan, and well-liked by the people. Their firstborns had been close since Hashirama stayed in the palace. He grieved for his brothers, but he didn’t believe it when the Emperor said it was a ploy to reduce their numbers. Tajima didn’t grieve for the youngest Senju sons either who fell in the young and hot-blooded Uchiha cousins’ hands.

Madara was ready to keep Hashirama and Tobirama safe from his father’s wrath. That’s why he volunteered to chase after them. But he failed to find the brother, and his own fiancée harshly refused his offer.

_What do you take me for, a fool? I will not be your captive!_

“As I thought,” Tajima’s voice, cut short his recollection, “she is the major pawn in Butsuma’s plan. Had we proceeded with the marriage, you would fall ensnared.”

Madara disagreed; Hashirama wasn’t that kind of person. She was genuinely wanting the best for the realm, having voiced her concern over the impoverished people in places she visited. She was trained in various arts; from knitting to swordsmanship, economics to baking. She was the only one who never giggled like most noble daughters upon his presence. Instead she punched him and challenged him to outrun her. She was a lady and a fighter.

“We should’ve asked Butsuma first about her mokuton before we execute him. Now you also let his daughter escaped?”

“She trapped me,” Madara forced himself to lie, eyes fixed to the polished marble floor, to the reflection of Melestetral’s bones suspended above their heads, “with her ability, then escaped.”

“That is not an excuse. You showed your weakness!” Tajima stepped down from the throne, approaching. “Annul your engagement at once. I’d rather see you marry a girl from the gutters than mixing our blood with the usurper’s— ”

It rolled off his tongue before he could prevent it. “No.”

“Insolent!” Tajima struck Madara, then returned to the throne. “Leave! If I’m not short of heirs, I’d have you burned alive for defying my order!”

Madara rose and gave his father a solemn bow, spitting blood once he reached a secluded hallway. The taste of metal lingered behind. The pain was bearable, he’s used to it. The prince leaned at the wall, taking deep breaths to quell the storms in his chest.

Some parts of him agreed with the emperor. Hashirama was the daughter of the man who’s marked a traitor and executed not a week ago. Moreover, their clan descended from the younger brother of Indra, the usurper of his throne. Once a traitor, always a traitor.

Yet Madara knew Hashirama wasn’t that kind of person. She was a bad liar. She cherished their bond, she could see him beyond his status as a crown prince...

_What do you take me for, a fool?_

Her tear-streaked face screamed at him from his memory.

* * *

.

.

“Our Eyes are searching for the Senju siblings throughout the Realm.” The Whisperer glided behind the pillars. “The Ears are gathering information as we speak.”

Madara hid his irritation, watching his sister hacking straw dummies in the courtyard by herself. “You have nothing useful to report, then. Leave.”

“Oh I do, I do,” he chirped giddily, swift steps crossing the tesserae map of the Realm. His tall, hooded figure was a contrast against his high pitched voice. “The forest where Your Highness last saw her? It was close to the place where the Usurper was burned by Emperor Indra.”

Madara crossed his arms, shifting his attention to him. “And?”

“Lady Senju has the mokuton.” The Whisperer giggled, and it was unsettling. “Those might have some connection.”

“Might,” he repeated dismissively. “I don’t play with possibilities. Order Hyuuga men to join the search party. They’ve been left idle far too long in the temples.”

“His Majesty will be happy to hear this,” The Whisperer hummed, slowly descending into the shadowy hallways.

Madara blasted his chakra, still unnerved from the exchange. He was a skilled sensor, yet that man could escape his sensing easily. No one knew the face under his hood, or if he was different person from time to time. The Whisperer had been around the royal blood for centuries; surely he was replaced by successors upon successors. Yet Madara doubted it. He had an eerily sharp memory regarding past events, including details in the unwritten periods of history.

Izuna had stopped training, now looking up to meet his eyes. His sister went to the building, then emerged out from a hidden stairs. Her forehead was dotted with sweat. “Any news from the hunt?”

Madara shook his head. “Tell me,” he requested, “you know Senju Tobirama better than I do. What will he do now that he’s separated with Hashirama?”

“Hm.” Izuna began to took off her leather armor. A maidservant appeared from a corner, taking her armor away. “He will risk himself looking for Hashirama. That forest of death will kill him for us. Touka is travelling with them... Tobirama will continue going north then. We can’t touch him once the samurai took him in. Tch.”

He studied the girl’s face. Izuna, the second in line to the throne, was barely two years younger than him, same age with Senju Butsuma’s oldest son. Their father had restricted her to womanly studies all her life, ignoring Madara’s protest that Izuna was as talented as him, given that the throne had chosen her too. She had been training and studying the art of war secretly until their brothers’ sudden death changed everything.

“I can force the samurai to surrender him,” Izuna said, stretching her arms then leaning at the railing. “We’ll have to mobilize our troops anyway. Can’t wait,” she added with a grin.

“You shouldn’t.”

“Brother!”

“It’s dangerous out there. We’re the only dragons left next in line. The samurai—”

“You led the search party yourself!” she shouted back. “Why can’t I do the same?” Izuna was glaring at him, her hands on the hips. “It’s not like a war will immediately break. We had a legitimate reason to execute Lord Senju.”

“Think about it,” Madara pleaded to her. Izuna could be quite headstrong sometimes. “What would he gain from killing our brothers? Besides, the Senju forests are known for its wild animals. They’re not the only casualties— ”

“How could you say that about our own brothers!?” Izuna screamed, shoving his shoulder with her gloved hand. “The Senju know their forests better than us! Our brothers are still kids!” She paused, her chest rose and fell rapidly. “For all we know, both Hashirama and Tobirama could’ve been scheming behind our backs. Don’t fall for her charms, Brother. I know you’re better than this.”

“I’m not,” Madara lied, swallowing _the Senju children are dead too_. “She has the mokuton now.”

The maidservant returned, announcing that a bath had been drawn. Izuna dismissed her. “Same like the Usurper, huh... you should’ve burned her while you got the chance. Just like Emperor Indra.” With that, she followed the maidservant, leaving her brother alone with his thoughts.

* * *

.

.

Madara couldn’t sleep. He spent hours staring at the gilded canopy of his bed, tracing the golden patterns with his eyes. Endlessly moving, navigating between his experiences in the past days and his family’s demands. Until the fire in his hearth reduced to embers, he was still awake and alert. Surrendering, Madara chose to take a walk within the palace grounds.

In the last few days he had ordered the palace scholars to search the library for more information about the Usurper. His request was met with confused stares. The scrolls about him had been destroyed centuries ago. His name was made forbidden. The scholars should’ve taught him more about the Usurper. Even if the knowledge about him was eradicated after his death, surely there were written records somewhere. The Senju might kept some.

“Go to the Senju’s library if you must!” he lashed out after they reported their search brought nothing for the umpteenth time. “I need every thing they have!”

He needed them all. He needed all the knowledge to—

The search bore no results so far. The army marching to the Senju lands hadn’t been able to breach their defenses. By the time they did, their people might had taken their scrolls away fearing the imperial force would destroy them. The Hyuuga reluctantly let some of their men join the search party, but their byakugan were unable to penetrate the forest’s depths. Their neutral policy prevented them from taking sides in any political strife in the Realm, but Madara knew they would morally side with the Senju. Their previous lord was a generous donor to the six paths temple.

The news of Hashirama’s awakened mokuton had been spreading throughout the Realm, and he finally knew the Usurper’s name: Ashura. But it was the only thing he found out, and Madara was impatient. Where is Hashirama now? The forest she entered was known to kill anyone who wandered into it. She had mokuton, it’s unlikely she would die so easily. Hashirama wasn’t some sort of noblewoman who never spent a night in the wilderness. She could survive on her own.

_Could she?_

“Your Highness.”

His steps halted. Heartbeat rising rapidly as he turned around to see The Whisperer emerging from a dimly-lit hallway. He chuckled when Madara’s chakra brushed off him.

“What stresses you, my prince?” he asked, gilding to his side. “Worrying over your runaway lover?”

Madara looked away, continuing his walk. He followed, matching his own soundless footsteps to his, leaving the prince no choice but to answer him, “she isn’t my lover.”

“With all due respect, Your Highness,” he hummed, “have you forgotten the lesson about chakra?”

His temper flared, his chakra vibrated restlessly around them. “What are you implying?”

“Chakra doesn’t lie.”

Madara could see two rows of sharp teeth under his hood. He did not forget the lesson. Begrudgingly he sucked back his chakra, repressing all the thoughts that had been keeping him awake.

They had reached the throne room. Madara promptly walked near the wall to avoid his father, but the throne was empty. Tajima wasn’t there. Odd. He felt no other presence except of himself and The Whisperer, who smiled as if he had arranged it.

“Why don’t you sit on the throne,” he suggested, “my prince?”

Madara ignored it. “Where is Father?”

“In his bedroom, as I have advised him.” The Whisperer bowed slightly, passing him. “Sleeping on a cold, hard surface did no good for his muscles...”

Melestetral’s bones gleamed blue, casting strange shadows to the floor. Her jaw was set to be open wide, as if she was going to eat whoever currently kneeling before the Emperor. Her eye sockets were empty, but thanks to the recurring tales he had been told since young, Madara could place glowing golden eyes and clothed the bones with black and golden scales in his mind. Melestetral was the smallest and the quickest of the Original Three, the only one whose body could fit into the palace.

It would be great if he could ride one, so he could look for Hashi—

“Say,” Madara whispered, and it echoed, “why do you think we can’t hatch dragons anymore?”

The Whisperer grinned, and Madara had to held himself from hitting him. “What do you think, Your Highness?”

“I’m asking you.”

“The blood of the dragon has been weakening.” The Whisperer took his usual place, on the left side of the throne.

“Why?” Madara cut him, stopping on the other side. “Tell me something that I don’t know.”

“You have strong blood, my prince. I say, unusually strong,” he said, a robed arm raised to point at him. “But not what the dragons need.”

He frowned, arms folded on his chest. “The throne accepts me and my family.”

“Those are two different things.” He grinned again.

“What things?”

The Whisperer merely gestured at the throne. With one last suspicious glance, Madara sat. His heart thundering in his chest as he placed his hands on the armrest, feeling the cold steel piercing his senses straight to the bones. The throne didn’t fit his build, his father’s, or any of their predecessors. Nevertheless, Madara forced himself to be comfortable. He glanced upwards, scanning over Melestetral’s bones, then he molded his chakra.

The throne room and The Whisperer disappeared.

* * *

.

.

“Rise.”

The voice was cold; utterly cold, like a dayless winter Madara read happened before the Realm came to be. It cut the air with such precision, like a sword in a trained hand. It demanded total submission, but Madara resisted. Eyes closed shut, fingers curling over the edges of the armrests. The only sound he heard aside of the voice was his own heartbeat. Even within the palace ground, he could hear the wind blowing through and the night insects making noises.

Madara opened his eyes to his own feet hanging above a liquid surface reflecting his confused face. He touched the liquid with his feet. Water, but impenetrable. He couldn’t measure its depth. The water gleamed silver and purplish, the only available source of light. Ahead stood a figure, tall and willowy, shrouded in shadows. Madara spread his chakra forward out of reflex, only to find his back hit the throne with an immense force pressing onto his chest. Pure chakra, full of anger, clawed his being and shredded his defenses effortlessly. Panic rose within him as Madara felt a formless hand grasping his neck, holding him in place and forcing him to look upwards.

Someone manifested from the shadows and raging chakra. Long, dark strands shrouded him, blocking the light from his face. A pair of eyes glinted back at his; dark for a moment, then red for another. Red with three tomoe.

A hiss. “Insolent.”

The throne disappeared into smoke, and Madara’s body slowly fell into the water. He gripped the slender hand on his throat, but the stranger was stronger than him. The prince couldn’t tell what should his body do; his legs trashed and flailed, his chakra repressed by the stranger’s, his powers refused to answer his call. He was underwater. He was drowning.

Madara’s sharingan spun into being, meeting the other pair, and his brain was assaulted with feelings— _things_ , that weren’t his, yet not unlike his own. A certain face surfaced within his mind, tears dried on its cheeks. The other eyes narrowed.

He couldn’t look away. He wasn’t breathing anymore. Immense dread and vindictive thoughts swirled around his mind, centering on that face. Who knows what she hides behind that smile, behind that laugh? Who knows what power now danced in her palms after the Usurper has graced her with his powers? Had he chased her into the forest, he could’ve met his end.

_She would bewitch you, young one._

Branches, vines, trunks—all conjured from nothingness, choking men and beasts, drenching leaves and earth in their blood.

_She would take your rights—the throne and Realm from your hands. Just like what he did to me._

_Hashirama wouldn’t—!_

The hand on his throat tightened. _Do not fall into her enchantment! You are the blood of my blood! My heir! That wench had taken your brothers, do you wish to see your sister dead as well?_

Izuna appeared in his mind. Laying on a pool of her own blood, stabbed by a silvery branch through her chest armor. Her lifeless face gazed to him, eyes nowhere in sight, mouth opened in a silent scream. Madara reached for her, but vines and branches entwined themselves around his body, dragging him backwards. Away from his eyeless sister.

_No—Izuna—!_

Madara struggled against the powerful pull. A vine wrapped itself around his neck, choking him the stronger he fought against their grip. Heat rose from his stomach, spreading through the blood vessels, burning him inside out. More silvery branches grew, separating him from Izuna. Branches became trees, trees became forest. Between them, more bodies lay in their own pool of blood. Small bodies, with dark hair and dark clothes like his own.

_My brothers—_

It’s her doing. It must be. She was capable of conjuring these things out of nothingness. She could’ve killed him just as easily. Hashirama went into the forest to gain more power, but if she had accepted his offer that day...

Madara roared. His chakra tied with the heat, creating a blast of scorching air around him, setting the branches binding him ablaze. Soon the entire forest was burning, red and orange and yellow swirled before his sharingan. This is what he’s going to do the next time he saw her.

The Usurper’s Blood must be burned like the Usurper himself.

_Burn her!_

“I’m not going to kill Hashirama!”

The burning forest was gone. They were back at the dark, watery place. Madara pushed the stranger away, who was caught by surprise at his outburst. He rose to his feet, distancing himself. His chakra was ready, fists balled before him. Sharingan met sharingan.

The stranger stood tall, condescendingly asking, “do you not know who I am?”

He squinted. The palace housed paintings and statues in the likeness of the stranger—but of a different person. A man with stiff jaw, with a clenched around a curved blade, clad in white. He was often depicted riding a dragon, one of the Original Three. Sage of Six Paths’ firstborn, the founder of the Realm.

“You’re not him,” Madara answered, his throat still hurting from his earlier scream.

The stranger raised a brown, round eyebrow.

“You’re a woman,” he added.

“I am,” the stranger snorted, walking closer. “Someone has tampered with history. I have been written down as a man.” She had a prideful gait, her steps echoed with power even on the water. Her attire was exactly like how the First Emperor was often depicted with; white robe with dark tomoe embroidery around the collar. Her hair was similar to Madara’s, only dark brown instead of jet black. Purple lined under her sharingan.

Madara frowned.

“Language mishap did contribute.” She waved her hand. The air around them felt lighter. “More importantly— ”

“Show me the exit,” he demanded. “Enough with this charade—you think I don’t know this is Whisperer’s doing?”

“That whisperer knows what he is doing.“ Her face darkened. “You are a fool if you think this is some sort of trickery. You are sitting on the throne I made. This,” she opened her arms to the darkness that hung above their heads, “is our shared mindscape.”

Her body language did say she owned this place. Her hands rested on her waist, chin slightly lifted. The prince was unused to this treatment.

“An illusion then.”

She closed her eyes for a while. “For someone who inherits my chakra, you are not very bright.”

“I can have you imprisoned for that.” It irked him. He kept combing through his memories: descriptions, sketches, and paintings of the royal family since a thousand years ago. No emperor or empress matched her appearance except Emperor Indra himself.

“You cannot imprison someone who has been dead for centuries, blood of my blood.” She sat down--not on the water, but on a chair identical to Indra’s throne itself that appeared in a blink of an eye. “Where are your manners, boy?” She beckoned him closer. The corner of her lips quirked.

Madara remained standing, calculating their distance. He leaped forward, fingers quickly forming seals. She hadn’t moved, hadn’t blinked, even—

An unseen force slammed his body to the impenetrable water. He choked and coughed, his powers away from his reach. The calls to his chakra were unheeded. He was rendered into the lowest form of mankind. Powerless at her mercy.

“I am Indra.” She dug her heel into his chest. Her sharingan bore into his, glowing with danger. “Founder of the Realm, Its First Emperor and Dragonlord. Sage of Six Paths’ Firstborn, to whom this Realm belongs after my esteemed father’s passing.”

Her chakra engulfed him. It was hot and cold, brimming with calm anger, yet amused at his actions. What perplexed him was its feel—identical to his own.

The Whisperer’s words replayed in his mind. _Chakra doesn’t lie_.

“I know the Usurper,“ Indra continued, her face devoid of any emotions. “I know what he is capable of. You must find his blood. Burn her before she takes what is yours.”

His ribs flared with pain as he yelled his reply, “she won’t—!”

Her voice boomed around the mindscape, creating ripples on the water. “She will.”

The prince couldn’t take it anymore. Gritting his teeth, Madara roared, “Hashirama is not Ashura!”

He immediately regretted his action.

Her chakra flared again. _Leave! Burn! Die!_ Those words burned into his mind, followed by images of men being pierced by wooden stakes. Their bodies mangled into gruesome shapes. Blood painted the stakes red and black. These were real. Unlike the previous ones--

“How dare you uttering the name I have made forbidden!” Indra’s scream shook the mindscape like an earthquake. The water took shapes. Madara escaped and scrambled to his feet.

He was wrong. The water didn’t take shapes. It was Indra. The chakra around her body thickened until it was visible without sharingan. Bubbling up as her echoed scream reverberated the space around them. His own chakra coiled in his core, ready to take a shape on its own.

A purple skeleton ten times the size of normal human rose from her back. Ribs, shoulders, arms, skull. Its hands swept the water, creating waves and making it harder to keep his footing. Madara winced. His sharingan was active, yet the macabre imagery refused to leave his mind. He was barely able to dodge the skeletal hand; years of training helped him to regain his balance and breathed a fireball in retaliation. He wasn’t surprised to see Indra being protected by the skeleton. Both were safe unscathed.

_So this is the susano’o..._

“I have no intention to kill her!” Madara roared, ready to send another attack when the skeleton made an opening. There was no visible exit. The only way out must be by defeating Indra herself. He’d have to fight the susano’o first.

The air prickled his skin. They were afar, but he sensed that she was changing. In a blink of an eye Indra appeared before him again. The skeletal fingers trapped him in her grasp. He couldn’t mold his chakra. Suffocated. The second fireball growing in his throat died as she assaulted his mind once more. His screams joined the distorted echoes around them.

The bodies. Stabbed, flayed, mutilated. Raining blood. Dried and decomposed under the scorching sun. A grinning face that is eerily similar to Hashirama’s...

“Heed my warnings, blood of my blood.”

The command forced him to open his eyes. Indra’s sharingan had changed into another pattern. Her voice boomed in his head and in the mindscape.

“After the last of your family lies dead on her feet, your Realm deserts you, and you become nothing but a thrall, you will regret all your wrong choices up to that point, and you will realize that I have been right all along!”

* * *

.

.

His heart felt like it’s going to burst out from his chest.

Madara found himself awoke on the throne drenched in cold sweat. He wasted no time to leave, his feet carried him outside through an unguarded door. The crisp night air did nothing to quell the raging thoughts of his experience in the mindscape.

That was really the Emperor— _Empress_ Indra. Somehow none of his predecessors ever reported such experience, nor the knowledge of Indra’s... is it because he has her chakra? Madara stopped walking, leaning at a nearby tree.

He had walked straight to the banyan at the center of the palace garden. Its aerial roots brushed his face, swept by the wind. The tree emanated a damp scent that reminded him of the lush forests in the southern part of the Realm. He circled it until he saw the carved face on a side of its trunk. Its eyes were closed. The torches around him were too dim, but Madara could tell it was the same face he saw grinning in Indra’s imagery.

No, Indra’s memory.

This banyan wasn’t a regular tree. Some said the banyans with faces were connected to each other. A myth, a fairytale. Yet after his recent meeting, he doubted that it was mere myth. He should consult the scholars--Senju scholars. These trees were abundant in their lands.

The clouds above dissipated, allowing the full moon to shine and conquer the sky. As its light fell on the tree, its leaves glowed, seemingly alive from a sudden burst of energy. Madara reached forward. His fingers brushed the bark on the carved face when he stopped. The wind felt strange on his skin, prompting the prince to spread his chakra around.

He had detected a presence. There was nobody behind him or within two hundred meter radius. A spy? No spy would be this amateur and taking risk to slip into the palace. The same presence remained, circling him. Madara glanced up and lifted his fists, concentrating his chakra to burst before him. His sharingan spotted the outline of a body, standing before him like a normal human would. Carefully he reached it using his chakra.

This feeling was eerily familiar.

“Hashirama?”

A reply echoed into his mind. _...Madara?_

Another presence snatched her from his view. Possessive and dominating. Briefly watching him like a lion before its prey. Looking for his weak spots.

Under the branches, he couldn’t breathe. When they had disappeared from the garden, Madara bolted back inside.

* * *

.

.

“She’s with him.”

Indra’s back was facing him when he returned to the mindscape, distraught and in the verge of freaking out. His predecessor made no reply, prompting Madara to move in front of her. “I saw—sensed Hashirama. Then Ash—” he stopped himself before he set off her temper again, “—the Usurper, he’s...” His throat was dry, adrenaline rushing in his veins like he just battled a skilled swordsman.

“Are you scared, little one?”

“No!” Madara lowered his voice. “He... he will hurt her. I can get Hashirama before he—”

“Forget it.” Indra took a deep breath. “As I said, the girl is his blood. He will make her a usurper too.” She tilted her head, her expression a mix of amused and pity. “Tell me, Crown Prince Madara, what will you do if she threatens the peace of your Realm? Can you raise your sword and pierce her heart? Can you burn her like I did to my own twin?”

His entire being felt cold. Madara always knew that being a king means he had to give up certain freedom. He couldn’t be selfish in matters that put his people’s lives at stake. His father had declared war towards the Senju. A war that soon he had to lead.

Hashirama was his friend, his rival, another face among millions who live inside the Realm. His father’s will would be unstoppable, and as the Crown Prince, Madara had to support his decision until he chose to abdicate. He would be lying if he said he was willing to kill her.

But Ashura the Usurper had her in his grasp. He had been dead for centuries, yet he still manipulated her somehow. The twins were children of the Sage himself, the maker of the Realm. If Indra could leave an essence of herself in the throne, it’s possible her brother could do the same.

Madara would have to find Hashirama first before Ashura turned her completely into his pawn.

“Prove yourself.” She offered her hand. “Show me that you are worthy of my crown and throne, then I shall show you the powers befit a dragon.”

He stared at her pale palm. “Alright.” Madara grasped it. “I shall burn the Usurper.”

Indra smiled proudly.

* * *

 

.

.

He saw Hashirama every month, before the banyan in the garden during full moon. Her presence changed in each meeting, becoming more like Ashura’s. His ancestor was right. Ashura was using her.

Madara still wanted her to wear a crown and sat on the consort’s throne. His own crown was as sweet as the power Indra taught him, but his future throne never stopped inviting him to kill the woman he loved.

Just like drinking honey and poison at once.


End file.
